


this must be the place

by hereisthepart



Series: love and great buildings [5]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereisthepart/pseuds/hereisthepart
Summary: Maybe Jihoon is better with words, and maybe he can turnthem–he and Mingyu, the two of them as a unit–into song after song, melody after melody, like a fire is being lit under him constantly. But Mingyu can do this: build them things that will last decades, lifetimes.Whole centuries, if the foundation is strong enough.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: love and great buildings [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498571
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114





	this must be the place

**Author's Note:**

> I figure if I can write fic about kpop idols, I can also take some other, additional liberties. suspension of disbelief, and all that. thank you for riding along with me, if you have. this little universe is stuck with me, and I might one day add more to it, maybe with other ships within it, but right now, I think they're exactly where they want to be.
> 
> title is from ["close" by hellogoodbye](https://open.spotify.com/track/5ivAKbmtIDHueGyVpB6SHh?si=-PPAgHOdTbOD5yUkXVJluw). as always, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ljhmyg)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/ljhmyg).  
> 💞

* * *

It’s snowing when Jihoon squeezes Mingyu’s hand and says, “My parents asked if I was spending the new year with you.”

A warning, a warning, Mingyu’s kingdom for a **WARNING** before Jihoon does this to him. As it is, his throat closes up with an unreleased scream and he trips over his own feet, boots scuffing the ground, yanking Jihoon hard to the right in the half second it takes to get his balance. Jihoon makes a strangled sound and steadies himself with a hand on Mingyu’s chest, laughing a breathless laugh, before curling it around his bicep instead. 

Bewildered, Mingyu clears his throat and glances at Jihoon.

His chin is tucked into his scarf, temple resting against Mingyu’s shoulder. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and dinner and drinks at Minghao’s, a smirk hitching up one end of his mouth as he refuses to look up. 

Over frosted sidewalks and busy intersections, the two of them are making their way back to Jihoon’s apartment. They’re keeping a quick pace, attempting to turn the fifteen minute walk from the transit stop into a brisk twelve, but Jihoon slows his gait, his other hand sliding down to interlock with Mingyu’s. 

Mingyu clears his throat. “Your–parents?”

Jihoon sniffles, but doesn’t say anything.

This is–this is news to Mingyu. He lifts a brow. 

“Are...you?”

“Mm.” Jihoon squints against the wind. “It’s for family, isn’t it?”

“Hyung, I...” Mingyu laughs, an exhale out, heart ramming in doubletime. He stares straight ahead. “Is that a yes or no?”

A beat. He thinks Jihoon might be smiling when he says, “So, is Jungkook-ah Hao’s _boyfriend_ now? Was that what we were acknowledging with the festive, responsible, adult dinner party?”

“Soonyoung-hyung told me he blew one of those guys he’s dating in the bathroom, so I’m not sure how responsible it actually was,” Mingyu says. And, with a swallow: 

“Changing the subject feels like a no.” 

With his cheek against Mingyu’s shoulder, awkwardly stumbling along, Jihoon says, “It’s not a no.”

“Then why do you keep making excuses to avoid ever being in the same room as my parents?”

Jihoon laughs, eyes lifted to the sky. He yanks on Mingyu’s arm so he comes even closer. “Ahh. Are you still looking for apartments?” 

"I am,” Mingyu says, because he is. They haven’t talked about it since the night Mingyu helped build his bed frame, partly because talking to Jihoon about his feelings sometimes is a bit like holding out a hand and trying not to startle a water deer, but also, well. Mingyu isn’t all that sure he could handle the disappointment. 

Jihoon’s fingers dig into his bicep; he rubs his cheek against Mingyu’s shoulder, affectionate, still a bit tipsy. “What if you didn’t?” 

Strangely, Mingyu feels knocked off balance; he licks his lips and smiles in a way that doesn’t feel much like a smile at all and looks down at the ground as they walk. He can’t stop the way his heart ricochets in its chest, making his breath come in quicker. He wants this, has wanted it for months, wants it every night they’re apart, except–

Except that–

Jihoon’s apartment comes into view. On pretense of rubbing his hands together to warm them up, Mingyu pulls away, rummaging around his coat pocket for his set of keys. He jogs a couple quick steps ahead to get to the entrance first; Jihoon makes a noise in his throat, a question.

Sparing a brief glance over his shoulder, Mingyu tosses out, “This doesn’t have to be the consolation prize, hyung.” 

His keys feel awkward in his grip; he glares ineffectually at the doorknob. “I don’t want you to do something you’re uncomfortable with just to avoid doing something you’re uncomfortable with.”

There’s this sudden stillness–the sound of Jihoon freezing in place for a few seconds–and then he’s right behind Mingyu, a hand shooting out to curl around his wrist. “It’s not a consolation prize– _hey_ ,” he tugs, forcing Mingyu to leave the key in the lock. 

Once more, with feeling: “It’s not.”

Mingyu turns, gnawing on his bottom lip, back against the door. Jihoon’s smile is that little flat one, where the corners of his mouth dig into his cheeks. He makes a low, humming sound, curious, and it’s cute in an unbearable sort of way–the kind of cute that makes Mingyu want to scream he almost can’t stand it–so he looks out towards the street and squints at a street sign instead. 

Hands run between Mingyu’s unbuttoned coat and the sweater underneath it; Jihoon’s fingers splay out at his sides, digging in, insistent. Mingyu looks at him, and Jihoon hops up on his toes, darting a kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“It was supposed to be a present last month but I chickened out,” Jihoon says before his feet fall flat. 

With a sigh, Mingyu frames his face–how could he not–and sags against the front door, legs at a ridiculous angle, a wide vee with Jihoon in between. He doesn’t say anything, and Jihoon, round-cheeked, laughs, sounding frustrated by his own earnestness when he adds in a squished voice, “If you don’t believe me, there’s a whole outline in my Notes app. And a subsequent letter in a card stuffed in one of my drawers.”

 **ENOUGH!!**

Mingyu lets out a breath, a noise underneath it not unlike the squeak of an overwhelmed field mouse experiencing an act of kindness from a world-weary feral cat. He slings his arms around Jihoon’s shoulders, cheek to the crown of his head, squeezing harder at the sound of Jihoon’s happy groan as he lets out another low, delighted laugh at the center of Mingyu's chest.

“I believe you,” is all Mingyu can think to say.

Jihoon is better at this, at words. 

At finding the right ones, anyway. The best ones. 

He has an entire career built on metaphors and chord progressions, with Mingyu reading between the lines to find all the little ways Jihoon has marked their relationship through music. Mingyu knows they aren’t _all_ about him. Sometimes it’s just a verse, just a line, _just enough_ to listen to and see himself through someone else’s eyes. There are gems deep in Jihoon’s drive, in the private folder he’s shown Mingyu a handful of times. Songs about buildings, spaces, houses, homes. Finding people you want to build them with. Finding one forever, if you're lucky.

(And Mingyu knows this, too: those are _always_ about him.)

Face buried in Jihoon’s hair, he asks, “Did you forge my name on the lease?”

“I will if you want me to,” Jihoon says, muffled by the folders of Mingyu’s sweater. “What’s a little bit of crime in the name of love?”

“Crime!” Mingyu cries, lifting his head at the same time as Jihoon. 

“Only a little bit of crime,” he whispers, bouncing up on his toes again, only once. He pats Mingyu’s chest. “Or I _guess_ we can wait.” 

(Picture, months ago: a couple of bottles of wine at Minghao’s and then an entire browser’s history worth of internet searches on how to break a lease early.)

“I just know…” his mouth twists, wrinkle between his brows. “It feels weird when you aren’t here.”

There’s a burning in Mingyu’s throat that he swallows down. He adjusts Jihoon’s hair, fluffing it up to have something to do. “Is that from the letter?”

When Jihoon laughs again, it’s sweet and under his breath, fingers tugging at the lapels of Mingyu’s coat. “I’m paraphrasing," he says, nuzzling against Mingyu’s chest for a moment. He jabs Mingyu in the collarbone with his chin, going up on tiptoe again, pouting when Mingyu straightens out.

He tugs on Mingyu’s collar, frowning; Mingyu inhales, amused, and lets him win the second time around. When they pull away, Jihoon’s back bowing as Mingyu winds an arm around his waist, the world fogging up between them, Jihoon punches him softly on the shoulder. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to meet them, Minggoo-yah, it’s that my parents do, too.”

There are only so many times a night Mingyu can be knocked off axis before he can’t find North anymore. Jihoon’s feet fall flat; Mingyu slips an arm around his shoulders again instead and rests his chin on the crown of Jihoon’s head. 

“That’s,” he says, off-kilter. “That’s–good.”

“It is,” Jihoon agrees, mumbled into the folds of Mingyu’s sweater. “But that, it feels like, I don’t know. It’s not. I want to figure it out on our own first.” 

“Figure out what?” 

“Oh–holi...days?” Jihoon says unsurely. “The–future–future. Holidays.”

Mingyu drops a thoughtful kiss to the top of Jihoon’s head, picking his up only to repeat, “Holidays.” 

“Yes,” Jihoon says. “In the future.”

Wind whips in their direction, and Jihoon shivers, pressing in closer, face buried once more. Now seems like a good idea as any for Mingyu to admit, “I got you a present, too. Kind of.” 

Jihoon skirts to the side to finally unlock the door. “Was that why you brought that mysterious fancy-looking tube over like two weeks ago? You said it was for a project.”

“Maybe I lied,” Mingyu tells him, amusement in his voice, taking the keys Jihoon hands over to him. He pushes the door open, and they stare at each other for a long moment, smiling softly. 

Then Jihoon abruptly turns and sprints up the stairs two at a time. 

In a haste, Mingyu starts up after him, Jihoon’s steps pounding as he shouts, “Hyung, are you _running_?! You already have the present, it’s not going anywhere!”

“I’m gonna eat the letter!” Jihoon shouts, his cackle ringing out two flights above as Mingyu stumbles upon a step in a panic, barking out a laugh, chasing after him.

“ _NO!!!_ ”

“I can’t let you know I have feelings,” Jihoon says, suddenly closer when Mingyu rounds the stairwell to find him with his back to his door, panting, a hand on the knob behind him. 

What a thing to experience more days than not now: Jihoon’s edges softening, red-faced but beaming as Mingyu skids to a stop in front of him. His hands clutch Mingyu’s sleeves to pull him in close when they kiss, off-center.

“Too late,” Mingyu says when they part, falling into Jihoon, a forearm planted on the door next to his head. He peppers kisses along Jihoon’s temple, mumbling, “Let me read the letter _while_ you eat it, at least.”

“Attempt at your own risk,” Jihoon threatens, lifting his head to bare his teeth, unable to hold it before he dissolves into a hiccup of laughter. He turns the knob behind him, opening the door suddenly, the two of them tripping his apartment. 

The momentum has him throwing his arms around Mingyu’s neck, clinging onto him for dear life as Mingyu grabs him, choking with laughter. In the same breath, he sweeps Jihoon off his feet, just enough so they’re the same height, before planting him back down onto the floor. 

(This happiness overwhelms Mingyu sometimes, the thought that he has this person, the thought that _this person_ makes him feel _so good, all the time_. The thought that it can only get better from here.)

In record time, Jihoon divests himself of his outerwear and flees with hastily thrown on slippers. His coat is flung, haphazard, on top of Mingyu’s head and Mingyu drags it off to hang it up, tilting into view to see where Jihoon’s gone–off to the bedroom, in the direction of his dresser. 

“Okay, I’m starting to worry you’re actually going to eat it.”

When Jihoon reappears in the bedroom doorway, he has Mingyu’s Mystery Tube clutched to his chest and a card in one hand. He’s already stripped down to joggers and his undershirt, cheeks still flushed with both sincerity and crisp winter air. Hair mussed, he slowly lifts the card to his mouth–

“Hey!” Mingyu says, darting forward, and Jihoon laughs, tapping an edge of the card against his chin. 

“Your eyes glazed over,” he murmurs, smiling up at Mingyu. “Wanted to make sure you were still paying attention. Get changed, I need to figure out if I will burst into flames the second I give this to you or not.”

“Please don’t combust,” Mingyu tells him, brushing past him as he makes his way into the bedroom. “I like you a lot, I’d be really sad.”

Jihoon waves the hand holding the card at him. “I make no promises.”

* * *

Jihoon sits on the card when Mingyu reenters the living room; he’s curled up at one end of the sofa, the tube carefully propped up next to him. Mingyu’s hands have been shaking for at _least_ ten minutes now, and he thinks if either of them were going to combust on the spot, it’d most likely be him. 

“Not yet,” Jihoon says, wriggling in his seat so he’s angled Mingyu’s way when Mingyu drops down next to him. “Yours first.” 

Mingyu jerks his chin at the tube, attempting to appear a lot more confident than he feels. “Open it.”

He gnaws on a thumbnail, watching Jihoon reach for it. Mingyu doesn’t draw his plans out all that often anymore–there are an infinite number of ways to get the same ideas across on your computer–but he likes getting the important ones down. It feels more concrete this way, as if the act of its physical existence is enough to make it come true. 

Jihoon uncaps the end, gentle as he twists the plan out. For a moment, his hands are full–in his left is the tube, in the right are the plans–and he shoots Mingyu a worried glance, unsure of where to roll it out. Then he slides carefully onto the floor, arms held above him, before laying it out, making sure to tuck his card underneath this new seating arrangement.

He doesn’t say anything for almost a full minute–Mingyu knows this because he counts–and has a slight wrinkle of confusion between his brows when he says, “It’s your house, right?” 

He cants his head, studying. “It looks different.”

“Ah, yeah,” Mingyu scoots in closer, still on the sofa, until Jihoon can settle in between his legs. Like this, he can only just make out Jihoon’s profile. He swallows hard, and wills his voice not to shake too obviously: “I added some stuff.” 

Curious, Jihoon purses his lips a little, examining shifted lines blown up six times the size of the framed plans in Mingyu’s own bedroom. His fingers ghost over new notes, new walls, new signs of life, and Mingyu can see it click. Jihoon’s fingers hover, unmoving, over one section in particular. They curl up, his mouth twitches, and Mingyu _knows_ this is how he dies. He’s suddenly struck by the way Jihoon scoffs, equal parts exasperated and enamored, turning his head to aim a poorly smothered smile at Mingyu. It's his favorite, in an odd way; it’s like watching Jihoon wrestle against his instincts, but the feeling is too good to pass up.

“You have a production studio in your dream home?” Jihoon asks him, disbelieving, the same sweet, buried smile in place. Mingyu isn’t sure how one person can nail the art of lovingly rolling their eyes so well. 

Mingyu inhales deep, scratching absentmindedly at the hair at his nape. He looks at Jihoon, and then he doesn’t. 

“Now I do,” he says.

(Maybe Jihoon is better with words, and maybe he can turn _them_ –he and Mingyu, the two of them as a unit– into song after song, melody after melody, like a fire is being lit under him constantly. But Mingyu can do this: build them things that will last decades, lifetimes, whole centuries, if the foundation is strong enough.)

Jihoon is touching the plan with gentle fingers; without looking, he tugs on one of Mingyu’s sweatpants’ed legs to get Mingyu to join him on the floor. Mingyu swings a leg over Jihoon's head and sinks, knees pulled up to his chest, Jihoon gliding the plan across the floor, a bit out of the way.

In an impossibly soft, unsure voice, he asks, “How often do you add to it?”

“I don’t, really,” Mingyu says. He puts his chin on Jihoon’s shoulder to look at his work. “The other half of the equation was always faceless, I guess. I don’t think about it too much.” He shakes his head, positively vibrating, unable to stop: “Except for a dog. I always picture a dog. I want a dog. Have I ever showed you the dog house plans?”

Jihoon isn’t looking at him while he laughs, tenderly, surprised out of him. When he _does_ , his eyes are wide, and maybe a bit shiny, not that Mingyu would ever point it out. 

Still, he can catalog it for later.

He sounds like he’s gifting Mingyu with his deepest, darkest secrets when he confesses conspiratorially, their foreheads knocking together briefly with a soft thump, "I always wanted to be stable enough to own a cat. Just felt like turning to plants was admitting failure.” 

“You’re going to apologize to my plants individually the next time you’re over,” Mingyu tells him, and, with all the air and bravery leaving his lungs at once, the smallest he’s ever sounded: 

“We could get a cat too. I have some ideas.” 

Jihoon smiles for real, just for a moment, and then adjusts the brightness; his eyes flick down to Mingyu’s mouth and back up before he returns to the plan. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. “We can do that.”

Mingyu’s hand is visibly trembling when he reaches up, absentminded as he brushes back Jihoon’s hair. “You’re not freaked out?”

“Mm.” Jihoon pauses for a beat. “Depends. Is this a talk?”

Which–right. _Right_ , the combination of this specific present and Jihoon’s parents asking a very real, very _terrifying_ thing is a lot to deal with in one night. Mingyu doesn’t know what to say, exactly, so he settles on, “If you want it to be.” 

Jihoon leans into him. 

“But it’s not...it’s not a question about...an agreement?” 

There are about ten million unsaid things happening. Mingyu snorts, despite feeling like he is going to throw up his heart, possibly. “Ah–no?”

“But it’s...a talk about a question?” 

“It’s more of a talk about the general concept.” 

Jihoon finally stops looking at the plan and covers his eyes with both hands. “Can we please just use real words?” 

Alarmed, Mingyu says, “I’m genuinely afraid you wouldn’t survive it.”

Jihoon huffs, reaching under him to hand over the card without looking. Mingyu takes it, and then places it on the sofa cushion directly behind him. He thinks he knows what it’d say, anyway.

“You want to…” Jihoon hesitates, mouth opening and closing. "It’s something I’ve thought about, too. Just, abstractly.” And, in a soft voice: “At various points in my life.” 

Mingyu tries not to smile. “I thought you wanted to use real words?”

“Yeah, well, I’m a coward,” Jihoon says, chin on Mingyu’s shoulder now, eyes shut when Mingyu kisses him, just once. 

“You’re really not.”

Jihoon makes a noncommittal sound, reaching out to hold Mingyu’s hand in his, tracing along his palm, sandwiching it between his own once he realizes Mingyu is still shaking. 

“Hyung…”

“Hm?”

“...If I try to look at this love note–”

“Noooo,” Jihoon says weakly, letting go as he laughs, burying his face against Mingyu’s shoulder.

“–This love _essay_ , if you will,” Mingyu continues–

“Ah, I hate you,” Jihoon says, at odds with the way he’s folded himself in, a hand flat on the floor for balance, Mingyu’s arms going around him for a hug. “Please don’t read it in front of me, I really will die.” 

“What’s the short version?” Mingyu asks, and Jihoon digs around the pocket of his sweatpants before coming up with his phone. He stares at the blacked out screen, and then tosses it behind them, where the card is, too embarrassed to go through with it. “What were your talking points?”

“My talking points were a, you’re a better cook than I am and b, it always feels like something is missing when you’re not around.”

He does not direct any of this _at_ Mingyu, but rather his knees. Then, with a distressed sigh, his face fully against Mingyu’s pec, “You put me in your _dream house_?”

“You put me in your songs,” Mingyu counters. 

The laugh he gets in return is an exhale out, a soft, overwhelmed whine at the tail end. Jihoon doesn’t respond right away. Mingyu straightens his legs out, pulling him closer, and waits.

Jihoon says, “You’ll move in though, right? I know there’s not a lot of time, but I didn’t know how to talk about it, and my throat kept closing up whenever I _tried_ , which is why I wrote the stupid outline in the first place, but I...” 

He rests his head against the side of the sofa instead, Mingyu’s arms falling, one cheek mashed up, studying him. “I don’t know how to–the other stuff–it’s all a little scary, honestly, but…I love you. And none of this has ever been…” His eyes dart away and back again. 

“This is real. You know? I do mean it.”

Mingyu knocks him under the chin before kissing him; Jihoon hangs on to the front of his shirt with loose fingers, eyes closed when Mingyu pulls away, flush splashed high across his cheeks. There are a lot of things he can say in return. Like his future seems more concrete now, with Jihoon in it. Like that he’d give anything to walk into this building, covered in rapidly melting flurries of a mid-January snowfall, and know he’s home. Like _I love you, and I love this, and I love us_.

Like how Mingyu is pretty sure he wants to marry Jihoon someday, maybe, if Jihoon will have him.

Instead he says, “You’re going to have to get rid of the anime body pillow. I’m not a homewrecker.”

Jihoon laughs, shaking his head, scooting forward to aim a bite at Mingyu’s shoulder. His temple rests against it afterwards, and he holds Mingyu’s hand again. Mingyu lets his chin sit gentle atop his head and, after a pause, darts an off-center kiss to Jihoon's forehead. 

“It’s a difficult choice, but I guess I’ll give it up,” Jihoon says, smiling. 

“For you.”


End file.
